‘Because you can bet it’s men who do this, not women. I can just hear myself. Hello. Are you the inconsiderate bastard who blocked me in? No thank you. And then I’d have to plead with him to move as if he were doing me a favour.’ I look behind me, where a handful of men are urging each other on with the weights. ‘What if you were with them? I’d have to deal with all of you.’

‘But I’m not with them.’ The effort of speech doesn’t make him breathe any faster.

‘I want to get away when I want to get away. I don’t want to have to negotiate some kind of treaty to do it.’

Want, want, want. It’s always what you want. Why is what you want the only thing that matters?

Is it really so terrible to want?

George jumps his legs to either side of the treadmill belt so he can hop off before the machine slows and stops. A few seconds later I see him striding towards his car, jumping in, driving away. In five minutes he is back on his treadmill, again gesturing for me to turn down my music so I can hear him.

‘I’d never want to make anybody uncomfortable. I should have thought.’ His balance is perfect, even though he is looking sideways at me. ‘Glad to see your heart rate is calming down.’

I glance at the tracker. Already it has fallen to 145, though I can’t blame George entirely that it rose in the first place. Jane – what Zac did to her – the fact that he is so near – all of this is a big factor in my increased heart rate. George blocking me in was merely the tipping point.

‘Can I buy you a coffee when we’re finished here? To apologise for being such an inconsiderate idiot?’

This is unexpected. ‘I can’t.’

Eliza and Alice will be waiting for me at the little park near the hospital for our early morning date. Eliza has promised to bring flasks of coffee that I am predicting will rival a professional barista’s. I will bring nothing but my suspicion, hidden beneath smiles and the new moves of embryonic friendship.

‘No worries. We’re all busy. I know I am.’ He is running at his steady 12 kilometres per hour and there isn’t a drop of sweat.

Oh? I think. What are you busy at?

My suspicion that George is a spy no longer seems at all ridiculous. In fact, the suspicion has grown so huge that my urge to test it is now irresistible. ‘What is it that you do with computers, George? Am I remembering right that it’s something to do with security?’